


Latent Maniacal Tendencies, or the Tale of Nackles the Christmas Werewolf

by Kaesa



Series: Unspeakable Madness [1]
Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Christmas, Gen, Kid Fic, Minor Violence, POV Alternating, POV Minor Character, POV Original Character, POV Third Person, Science Fiction, Werewolf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-16
Updated: 2009-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-03 02:22:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaesa/pseuds/Kaesa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is December 24th, 1937, and Edwina Espis, the eight-year-old daughter of war profiteers who make magical weapons for Muggles, is convinced she's worked out how Father Christmas delivers all of his presents in one night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Latent Maniacal Tendencies, or the Tale of Nackles the Christmas Werewolf

Edwina Espis knew she was clever, which was probably why she had no friends. She had heard a lot of talk about Father Christmas not existing -- mainly from her nanny, Miss Snodgrass -- but she knew she was cleverer than Miss Snodgrass, who was probably just trying to brainwash her. Father took her into London sometimes on his business trips, and every December it was quite evident from the signs in Diagon Alley that Father Christmas had got some quite lucrative marketing deals. Quality Quidditch Supplies even had a bad likeness of him in their window, having replaced his reindeer with the brand new Comet 180.

And so, when she'd got into the argument with the boy next door, she felt she _had_ to defend the good Mr. Kringle's honor.

After Miss Snodgrass had pulled the two brawling eight-year-olds apart, she treated Augustus for bruises and told Ed to stop scowling or her face would stay that way forever. Ed pointed out that if it did, her mother would most certainly have Miss Snodgrass sacked, and _that_ made her shut up.

When Miss Snodgrass had finally given up on Ed ever making friends and sent Augustus home to his parents, Ed decided that she was going to have to examine the _facts_ of Father Christmas. So she made her way to the library.

She quite liked the manor's library. It was large, full of books, and there was hardly ever anybody there. Father spent all of his time in the laboratory, working out new ways to blow things up, and Mother was usually away in the States on business, or at Gringotts, or reading the newspaper. She knew they were doing good things, of course -- Father's explosives would protect the world from bad people, and Mother's friends were keeping Muggle children in Chicago from getting rickets, but she still wished she didn't have to spend so much time with Miss Snodgrass.

But onto more important matters.

Father Christmas, as she understood it, traveled all around the world delivering presents to _good_ children, and good children only. If the children had been bad, he would beat them with a stick. His means of travel varied widely; like Phileas Fogg, he had been known to travel by steamboat and by sleigh, and occasionally with assistants of foreign descent. He was obviously good-natured but completely and utterly mad. However, the man had historically been doing his job for many, many years, and within a very short period of time. This suggested superhuman determination and efficiency.

Ed frowned. This sort of thing was improbable. If he really did visit every single household _personally,_ well, in one night? That would be tiring. And even with Apparation, it would take too long. She didn't see how he could do it.

Unless... unless he traveled at faster-than-light speeds?

She paused. There were two men she admired above all others: Nicholas Flamel, and Albert Einstein. She had loved Flamel since her father had started tutoring her in alchemy, but she'd only discovered Einstein quite recently, and had read all of his papers. Though she understood none of them, she had got her father to explain them in shorter words, and she rather liked the mind-warping logic of it all. So she was somewhat iffy on the idea of contradicting him. Father Christmas versus Albert Einstein -- it was a tough choice.

So she began to research relativity.

After several hours, she had cleared up most of her Father Christmas-related uncertainties, and come to the conclusion that it was perfectly possible. Satisfied with her researches, she wrote down her sources, and folded up the parchment in order to show to that obnoxious know-it-all Augustus Rookwood at the Christmas party her parents insisted upon throwing. By then, Miss Snodgrass would be on holiday until January, and she could hit him to her heart's content

* * *

After waiting for what seemed like thousands of years (though it had only been a day and a half -- truly, the theory of relativity was genius) it was Christmas Eve. Augustus Rookwood and his foul sisters had come over, and were sitting by the enormous tree looking bored.

Augustus had seventy _million_ older sisters, each uglier and meaner than the last, and all of then named after Roman emperors. Ed had not bothered to learn their names, but unfortunately, they knew hers. "Edwina," one said, "our darling brother has told us that you _still_ believe in Father Christmas! How quaint!"

"It's Occam's Razor," said Ed. "Either he's real _or_ there's a massive worldwide conspiracy of people claiming that he's real and doing things in order to keep up the illusion that he's real. I think it's fairly obvious which one requires the least silly assumptions."

"All right, _fine,_" said Augustus, glaring, "but how do you explain the --"

"HAPPY CHRISTMAS!" Clovis Espis, Ed's father, came bursting in levitating a huge pile of delightful mechanical _things,_ and the children all rushed forward. He looked around and blinked. "My goodness, Eddie, we've got a whole flock of Rookwoods in here. Where's Raimund?"

"He's talking with Mother," said Ed. "It was dull, so I left."

"They're speaking in German, I suppose?"

"That, and I think it's about money," she said, wrinkling her nose. "I want to see the toys!"

"Now _Edwina,_ you know the rules. Guests first."

"Yeah, Ed-_wee_-na," said Augustus. Ed decided that someday she was going to kill Augustus. Or maybe just maim him. Whichever was more satisfying.

Ed's father frowned at the Rookwood girls. "Are you Sestina or Cornelia?"

"I'm Constantinia, sir," she said primly, giving him that sickly-sweet smile that adults always described as angelic and children always knew was fake.

"Right, right. Sestina's somebody else, of course." He shook his head. "I'm going senile, you see. Anyway, the _youngest_ gets first choice of the toys."

And doubtfully, one by one, each of the Rookwood children picked a toy; Augustus, to Ed's annoyance, had picked the beautiful mechanical Abraxan that she'd wanted, but after the others were done she settled for a little airship that moved about the floor on wheels and shot real sparks out of its miniature cannons.

* * *

The party was going splendidly, Idunn thought; the brace of businesspeople who ran Espis Arms and Armaments was getting plastered, her family had arrived safely from Vienna, the Rookwoods had confined their condescending sneers to a few neighborly pleasantries, and there was no sign of her brother-in-law, Thelonious. She walked over to the tree, where the children were shooting cannons at each other and arguing over who got the battleship.

Wait a minute.

"Clovis," she hissed, "what are you _doing?_ Don't you remember last year's incident with that pneumatic nutcracker?"

"I think they'll be fine," said Clovis. "Besides, that would never have happened if you hadn't invited the ga-- the, er, Americans."

"They have been our best clients for _years,_ Clovis," she said, exasperated.

"Well, as long as they didn't come again this year," he said.

"Ah," she said vaguely, having taken a sudden interest in the Christmas tree.

"...They didn't, right?"

Idunn watched her daughter as she shouted at three of the Rookwood girls, saying nothing.

"_Idunn._"

"They've been our _best clients!_" Idunn said. "Anyway, they knew somebody locally who could be our Father Christmas."

"What?"

"When _I_ was a girl, Father Christmas _always_ came to our parties with toys, and a stick, and ...and the Christ child. For some reason. He rang a little bell," said Idunn with a sort of ringing gesture.

Her husband winced. "Idunn, they're criminals."

"So is your brother."

"Yes, but I don't invite him," said Clovis, "he just comes along anyway. It's the free food. Remember our wedding?"

Oh yes. She remembered. She glared, then added, "Anyway, before the war we invited the Kaiser that one year --"

"Kaiser Wilhelm! You're comparing those thugs to --"

"To another thug. We sell magical guns to Muggles, Clovis, we are not _exactly_ the purest of the pure. Anyway, he didn't even RSVP. The gangsters are a bit more polite."

"But that was before we had _Eddie_ to worry about," said Clovis. "What is she going to think if we've got a load of criminals trouping through the house?"

"She still believes in Father Christmas; she's not old enough to worry about it yet. Anyway, that _brother_ of yours is worse -- _and_ he's contagious."

"Well, I _never_ invite him," said Clovis, looking grumpy. "I told you. He just _shows up._"

"Well hullo, and how're you doing this fine time of year?" A clawlike hand wrapped itself around her shoulder, and Idunn jumped.

"Get your disgusting paws off of me!" snarled Idunn; she recognized that voice. It was her brother-in-law.

Thelonious Espis grinned. Too widely, too. His hair was wild and his clothes were torn.

Clovis sighed. "What do you _want?_"

"Haven't you saved me a wind-up toy? You've become ever so handy with them." She could almost swear his tongue lolled. "And you're looking lovely as ever, Idunn."

"You were not invited," Idunn snapped. "You are very fortunate not to be in prison."

"That I am, that I am. Got anything to eat around here? I'm _starved._"

* * *

"I can't believe you still think Father Christmas is _real,_" said Augustus. They were in the library hiding from his sisters, who wanted to give them both pigtails. Ed didn't much like pigtails, and Augustus, being a boy, was terrified of them.

"Well, if you think about it, there's a lot more evidence for Father Christmas than there is for the Minister of Magic," said Ed. "Come on, help me with this sofa."

He helped her push the sofa in front of the door. "Don't be -- this is _heavy_ \-- ridiculous, the _Prophet_ talks -- oof -- about the Minister of Magic all the time," said Augustus.

"Have you ever _seen_ the Minister?" she asked, going to drag an armchair in front of the sofa.

"...well, no, but I've met people who say they have," said Augustus, lugging a footstool over from across the room.

"And the Minister says every year that he's going to do all sorts of things to make things better," said Ed, "but they hardly ever happen. But _Father Christmas..._" She started walking towards one of the shelves.

"Yes, yes, I see what you're talking about," said Augustus, glaring and trying to keep up, "but you see, it's a _conspiracy_ \--"

"At the Ministry? Oh, probably," said Ed. She dragged another footstool up to one of the shelves. "But I'm not really concerned about that."

"Anyway, there are too many problems with the whole ridiculous story," said Augustus, watching as she stood on the footstool. "For instance, the chimney."

"It's not _really_ the chimney, that's a Muggle thing." She scanned the shelves. "Obviously he uses a special sort of Floo powder that doesn't need a network to get into the houses," said Ed. "Father's working on something similar."

"Really? What, to sell to burglars?" Augustus asked.

Ed glowered down at him. "The chimneys aren't an issue."

"All right then, where does he get all the money for the toys?"

"Haven't you been to London lately?" Carefully, she climbed up onto the bookshelf. "Nearly every company there's hired him to promote their things. He probably gets a discount _and_ loads of profit. And I bet he's smart enough to make some of those things himself; he doesn't need to worry about regular things either, as he's got all those House-Elves up at the North Pole."

Augustus looked impressed, though whether it was with Ed's climbing ability or her reasoning, it was difficult to tell. "All right, then, what about the flying reindeer?"

"They're perytons," said Ed, sliding along to the next shelf.

He scowled. "Perytons? The man-eating winged deer things?"

"Exactly," she said, clinging precariously to the top of the next shelf.

"Those are _extinct._ They died out in the Renaissance."

Ed was smug. "Aren't you going to ask how he can possibly go all around the world and stop at each house?"

"You _haven't_ got an answer for that one," said Augustus. "It would require faster-than-light travel."

"Or time travel. Same thing, really." She ran a finger along the backs of the books, then pulled one out.

Augustus opened his mouth. Then he closed it. Then he glowered. "You're _mad._"

She threw the book down at Augustus, and it hit him in the head.

"OW! What was that for?"

She grinned at the rodenty way he was scowling at her. "For being obnoxious. That's all the 1934 issues of the _British Journal of Physical Thaumaturgy._"

"..._Why?_" he demanded.

"Because." She made her way back to the shelf she'd originally climbed from, and jumped down onto the footstool. "It's on page 1578."

"What is?"

"Time-travel," she said. "It sounded completely ridiculous, I know, because, you know, Albert Einstein and all, but he wouldn't have had access to this sort of experiment."

"Father Christmas has time-travel," repeated Augustus.

"Yes, of course," said Ed. "That's why he's so old but he doesn't die. He might know the Flamels, too."

"And perytons."

"And perytons! They probably _eat_ the really bad children."

"And some sort of mad thieves' Floo powder."

"It's not mad!"

"How does he know what to get everybody, then?"

"Oh, really, have you _no_ imagination? He's a Legilimens."

"Oh, obviously."

"You still don't believe me?"

"Not really, no."

"Hmph. You're an idiot," she said. "Do you suppose your sisters are gone now? The servants' exit's in that wall over there."

"Trust you to use the _servants'_ way," said Augustus, but he followed her anyway.

"It's just easier to get to the cloaks this way," said Ed, rolling her eyes. "I'm going to prove he's real. We'll wait for him outside."

"What, all night?" asked Augustus.

"Don't be stupid. He's visiting us early tonight," said Ed. "Mum told me."

"Since when does Father Christmas drop in on parties the night before?" Augustus demanded. He seemed disconcerted.

"Mum says he used to come all the time when she was a girl."

"But that was in _Germany!_"

"No, it was in Austria," said Ed, glowering. "Anyway, maybe he likes Austrian children better."

"...maybe," said Augustus. He seemed very worried now, and he was silent until they'd found their cloaks and reached the door out to the grounds of the mansion. "But, look, what about Nackles?"

Ed blinked. "Where's that?"

"You know, _Nackles,_" whispered Augustus. He looked around wildly, and seeing nobody but some trees and snow, repeated himself. "Tall thin bloke? Nackles!"

Ed wasn't sure who Nackles was, but Augustus was plainly terrified of him. Maybe he was like Uncle Thelonious. "Oh, Nackles," she said airily. "Well, you shouldn't have to worry about him. I mean, if _Father Christmas_ doesn't exist, why should Nackles?"

"But you just said --"

"Oh, don't listen to _me,_ after all it's not like I'm ever right about anything _else,_" said Ed.

"Right. Yeah," said Augustus. "Good point." He didn't seem reassured.

"Anyway, I haven't worked out how to explain the, you know, the..." Ed made a vague gesture.

"The Inferi Abraxans that breathe _burning frost?_" Augustus prompted.

"Yes, exactly," said Ed, as though she'd known about them all along. "There are a lot of spells for cold fire, but I don't know how you'd get them to exhale it. Or for it to _burn._ _Anyway,_ look, see? There's his sleigh, and the perytons. I was _right._"

When he saw the magnificent sleigh, loaded with presents, and the eight magnificent winged reindeer, Augustus went pale. Perhaps his thoughts were still on Nackles and his nasty undead Abraxans, but Ed was not perturbed in the slightest; Nackles was just the sort of thing Augustus' horrible sisters would come up with, and they were liars to the core. "Come on, let's see if it works!"

"What? You want to _steal_ Father Christmas' sleigh?"

"Well, he's not using it," said Ed. "See?" She pointed at the footprints leading away from the sledge. There were a lot of them. Maybe he'd brought elves. Very big elves. Ed was not particularly concerned about the shoe sizes of Father Christmas' elves. Perhaps he had human servants as well.

And so, not really worrying about the mess of footprints leading over the snowy hills and towards a copse of tall old trees, Ed climbed into the sleigh and started shouting at the reindeer to fly.

* * *

Meanwhile, the party was rather wearing on poor Clovis. Clovis Espis was not particularly a people person. He was good-natured and he understood why they had people over (namely, because Idunn Said So, and Idunn was the one who handled the money), but men who find themselves disappointed when wars end because it means decreased profits are not, by and large, men who take pleasure in the company of others, and Clovis preferred the quiet of the drafting board to the snooty Rookwoods, and the goblins from Gringotts, and the financial wizards who answered to Idunn, and the cigar-smoking gentlemen from Chicago. There was also the added terror of _remembering names,_ something he never really had to do anywhere but parties. If he owned the world, people he didn't know on sight would all wear nametags. And all those Rookwood girls all had the same sort of names, so it really didn't help.

At least (and here he did feel guilty, having a daughter of his own) he didn't actually _like_ the Rookwood girls. They were generally horrible to that poor little brother of theirs, and Ed seemed to really _hate_ them, so he felt he was moderately justified in not remembering their names.

About the only people he sort of liked at the party were his wife's family. About half of them didn't like him either, but they were honest sorts and none of them had come. Raimund Eberharter was Idunn's nephew, a top student at Durmstrang, and generally an exceedingly polite young man with a fondness for Arithmancy and History, and who didn't seem to mind that Clovis was new money or halfblood.

So Clovis was startled when Raimund tapped him on the arm and said "Excuse me, but your brother is the werewolf, yes?"

"Yes, er. I rather wish he wasn't, and it was all his idea," he added quickly, in case Raimund had inexplicably decided to berate him about this _now._ "Why?"

"It is only that tonight is the full moon, and I was wondering, how were you going to... the word, what is -- account for this? Be taking care of it? With the werewolf?"

There was a brief silence as Clovis stared at Raimund and realized he was not joking, and Raimund stared at Clovis and realized he _had no plan._

"Where is he?" asked Clovis.

"I do not know," said Raimund.

Clovis swore under his breath.

"Yes," Raimund said, cringing. "I should think so."

"Stay here," said Clovis, beginning to turn around. He stopped. "Don't tell _anybody._" He paused a moment before adding, "...except for Idunn. She'll kill me otherwise. But not 'til I'm out of the room, understand."

Raimund, frowning, nodded.

Clovis was halfway out of the room when a flock of young Rookwoods descended upon him. "Mr. Espis, Mr. Espis! Do you know where our brother's gone?" asked one.

"Check the library, they usually hide there," said Clovis, "but you must excuse me, I've just remembered something terribly urgent."

"Oh, _please,_ Mr. Espis, won't you show us to the library?"

Clovis gritted his teeth. Then he turned around. "Do you know what gunpowder does?" he asked calmly.

They all shook their heads, except for one of the girls at the back who audibly muttered "Something uncouth and Mugglish!"

"You're _quite right,_ my dear," said Clovis. "You see, it _explodes!_" His face darkened. "And if you don't want this whole house to go up in flames, you _will_ have to find the library on your own, and as for Ed and your brother, I wish them the best of luck in avoiding you. Happy Christmas." And he shut the door in their faces.

Now, to find Thelonious. Wealth, he reflected, had brought him a great number of hardships; for example, in this house he had the Rookwoods as neighbors, and in the other he had a number of strange Muggles, and he could never work out what to get his wife for Christmas or her birthday when she could buy anything she might possibly like and a number of things nobody could ever want. And he'd complained enough about the hundreds of rooms when Idunn had sat down with the architect, but he'd never counted on _werewolf_ infestations. This was highly impractical.

The first thing to do, he decided, was to restrict the house's internal Floo network. Many of the rooms were only connected to the rest of the house via fireplace, and so if Clovis took that option from his brother, he was more liable to stay in one place.

So Clovis made his way to Espis Mansion's ward-center, a long column of magical energy at the center of the house. All the magical energy of the house -- the Muggle-repelling charms, the outside wards that protected the house from all manner of disasters, the imitation electric lights that kept the Tiffany lamps glowing, the winter heating charms, and most importantly, the internal Floo network -- all these separate threads of magic sank into the foundation and from there spread out like an invisible spider's web through an empty shaft at the core of the house. At the top it opened to the grey winter sky and was doubtless cold, but at the bottom it was warm, and there was a fireplace, and a little dingy room with real electricity in one bare light bulb, where Clovis could coax things into working when they broke.

It was here that he went now, for a few minutes, and scratched a few numbers onto a piece of parchment. Then he took his calculations and left the dark little room. Muttering a spell over the stone that held the spells together, he inspected the parchment one last time, gave the stone a few last orders, and watched as the veins and arteries of the house, suddenly made visible, carried his spell through them.

If this worked, the Floo would let him, and only him, through it into the vicinity of a non-human, non-goblin, non-house-elf biped was. Anyone else would be spat back out safely into the room they had come from, although he allowed for Floo calls, as he was expecting to have to call the Ministry after this.

If it didn't work, there was a very good chance he would be roasted alive. Life was dangerous like that.

Steeling himself for the journey -- there was no sense in getting worked up about it now -- Clovis realized it might be nice to have some protection besides his wand, which, after all, wouldn't do him a terrible lot of good if Thelonious came after him after moonrise.

He looked around for something long and heavy to hit him with, but there was nothing he could find except an ornate gun, a prototype, intended for travelers in the magical wilderness who did not trust their wands alone and had never learnt marksmanship. Clovis would have preferred something less lethal, since he'd never actually killed anybody before and it was bound to be messy and unpleasant work.

The gun was deceptively small, modeled after a Muggle derringer, but quite powerful despite this, and covered in spell-laden filigreed figures, each representing a sort of dangerous creature the gun would automatically target. Clovis noted with some regret that there was no werewolf present, and, shrugging, looked down at his silver coat-buttons, pulled one off, conjured some gunpowder, and loaded the pistol.

Then he shoved it in his coat pocket, and determined to go out in a blaze of glory (or, hopefully, not at all), threw a handful of Floo powder and walked into the fire.

One slightly jerky Floo later, Clovis peered down the darkened corridor he had emerged into. The main staircase was at the end of it, and Clovis hoped to interposition himself between the werewolf and the party, should it come to that, but perhaps the spell hadn't worked, or perhaps Thelonious had already gone down the staircase.

"I'm over here." He stood on the staircase, leaning against the railing haphazardly, drinking from a very expensive-looking bottle of red wine. "I do hope you weren't expecting me to buy you a nice present for Christmas, Clovis. What _do_ you get the man who has everything?"

"Get out of my house," said Clovis, willing himself not to shout. His palms were sweating, and he had to force himself not to stick his hand in his pocket where the little derringer lay.

"But it's Christmas!" said Thelonious. "And it's _cold_ outside."

"I _said,_ get out of my house," said Clovis. "I'm serious."

"Always so serious! So Ravenclaw! You lot never have any fun, you know."

"It's the full moon, Thelonious. You're not being reasonable."

Thelonious laughed. "Did you really think I didn't _know?_ Your lunatic older brother plans ahead, Clovis. Oh yes, my friends and I will have a _grand_ Christmas feast. I've been planning this for _years._"

Clovis felt the blood drain from his face. There were more werewolves. _Where?_ "I'm sorry?"

"Oh, you will be, don't doubt it. I imagine you'll regret not having your little social parties in the London house where your heavy artillery is. But since you've seen fit to track me down here, well, who knows if you'll survive to see your pretty little wife and daughter eaten or worse. I imagine _you'll_ be eaten -- I'm always hungry at moonrise."

If it was a question of were_wolves,_ it was a question of time. "Where are they?" snapped Clovis, drawing the gun.

"Oh come on, Clovis, you don't expect me to believe that I -- that that -- it -- er."

Clovis pointed the derringer between his brother's eyes and advanced down the staircase towards him, with pitiless eyes. "Oh, I'm quite serious," he said, coming to a stop four steps above Thelonious. "And if you keep beating about the bush, you'll find a silver bullet in your brain. Such as it is."

"Really, what would Mother say?"

"_Answer my question._" He cocked the gun, but as he did, Thelonious, in one fluid motion, broke the wine bottle on the banister and lunged forward to press the sharp glass edge against Clovis' stomach.

"Bad idea," said Thelonious, smirking.

Clovis re-aimed the gun, trying not to think about how painful an abdominal wound would be and how unbalanced they were on the stairs. "I don't find this amusing at all, you know."

"Oh, I can tell you take it very seriously indeed," said Thelonious. "The question is merely this: would you prefer to be Cain, or to be Abel?"

"I don't really like riddles, actually," snapped Clovis. "It's my family I'm worried about, and if I have to kill you --"

"But I _am_ family!"

"Not anymore," said Clovis. "I was going to give you until moonrise, but now I've reconsidered."

"Don't be ridiculous, Clovis, you'd never just leave them to the wolves if you failed. I know you've got a backup plan. You _want_ to kill me, don't you?" He grinned, as if it was a dare.

"Oh, don't flatter yourself," Clovis snapped, but somewhere in his head the gears ground to a halt. Something was _wrong._ Thelonious wasn't stalling, as Clovis was, and he _wasn't_ begging for his life, as Clovis _would_ if their situations were reversed. He was... he was looking for information. _Confirmation._ Confirmation of _what?_

Thelonious mistook his confusion for misgivings. "That's right. Always knew you were a killer. I suppose all those pretty toys that blow things up weren't enough for you. You want to _see_ it."

A sudden movement behind Thelonious caught his eye, and Clovis threw himself back, pointing the gun upwards so that when it went off, the only thing that went with it were a few bits of plaster and wood. "_Stupefy!_" Idunn shouted, as Thelonious dropped his impromptu dagger and turned to stare in amazement. The hex hit him in the chest, and Clovis breathed a sigh of relief. At least that was one wolf down.

* * *

They had been arguing for quite some time. Originally it had been about how to get the perytons to fly, and then it was whether to unwrap any of the presents, but as always, they had found other topics that needed arguing about.

"Anyway, we haven't _got_ a magic carpet," Augustus was saying. "They're unreliable."

"Are not!" Ed refused to give up the whip, as Augustus was nasty enough unarmed. "Anyway, just because your father's got a flying carriage doesn't mean you know how to get perytons to fly. Anyway, your father's wimpy."

"Is not! He could beat yours up!"

"_My_ father was president of the Arithmancy club at Hogwarts," said Ed.

"Well, _my_ father didn't marry a foreigner to get his cash, did he?"

"Neither did mine! Anyway, there's nothing wrong with my mother," she snapped.

"She's a traitorous strumpety lady-Hun."

"If you _must_ keep saying such vile things about --"

He cut her off with a whinier repetition: "If you _must_ keep _saying_ \--"

Ed, having had quite enough of this nonsense, hit him in the face. "Ow," he said, more surprised than anything.

"You didn't let me finish. I was going to threaten to hit you."

He snarled and swung his fist at her, but when she ducked out of the way, there was a great loud sound, and the two froze as the sleigh suddenly lurched on the snow.

They sat frozen in place, not daring to move anything but to turn their heads and watch as the ground fell away, the perytons having been startled into flight.

After several long, dizzy moments in the silvery twilight air, Augustus spoke. "What was that?" he whispered.

"A _gun,_" said Ed. While Augustus was still too horrified to insult her properly, she snapped, "Anyway, Mother's _Austrian._"

* * *

Idunn then launched into a flurry of German obscenity that transitioned abruptly into English with the words "and you _didn't even TELL ME IT WAS **LOADED!**_"

"Well, I didn't see you, and anyway, you didn't ask," said Clovis calmly, brushing plaster off his shoulder.

"Why didn't you tell me he was --"

"I had Raimund tell you. He's very clever with --"

"WHERE IS OUR DAUGHTER?"

"Well, if the Rookwoods didn't find her, she's probably outs--" The gears started again. "Oh. _Oh._ Idunn, you didn't evacuate the party, did you?"

"They're on their way ...out." She froze. "He expected that."

"There are _more_ of them," said Clovis. "He wanted me to think he'd let them in." He looked at the unconscious form of his brother. "I ought to shoot him right now."

"Isn't that model single action only?" she asked, looking at the derringer. "_What_ have you done to your _coat?_"

"It doesn't matter," he said, unwilling to worry about morality and silver allergies right now. "Call the Ministry, and... and have your Chicagoans search the grounds. And tell them Ed's out there! And probably that Rookwood boy. So they'd better be careful."

"And our Father Christmas too," said Idunn. She hesitated. "...that spell will never hold a werewolf at full moon."

"I have half a mind to lock him in the autoclave," said Clovis, "but fortunately I'm nicer than that. Go get Ed."

She went.

* * *

"Has anybody ever told you you're quite a coward?" Ed asked. She was holding onto the side of the sleigh for dear life, and Augustus was holding onto her arm, even though he had his own side of the sleigh. "If you fall out, I probably will too."

"But it's _Nackles!_" whimpered Augustus.

"Never mind that, what do you suppose those men are doing down there?" Ed asked. She peered at half a dozen men carrying shiny black guns. They patrolled the trees below carefully.

"_Nackles,_ Ed, it's _Nackles!_"

"My arm and I both hate you, you know," said Ed. She turned and saw the black carriage. It was pulled by eight sickly-looking winged grey horses, and it was approaching them ominously. The horses' breath was cloudy in the cold air. "Augustus?" Ed asked.

"What?"

"What exactly does Nackles... _do?_"

"He _eats_ bad children," said Augustus, "_everybody_ knows that."

Ed gulped. "...Define _bad._ Is it like wouldn't-go-to-bed-on-time bad or..."

"Or _what?_"

"Or, maybe, is it stole-Father-Christmas'-sleigh bad?" Ed asked.

"...I don't want to die," said Augustus. He looked speculatively at her. "This is _your_ fault. Do you think if I pushed you out of the sleigh --"

"He'd still go for you," said Ed. "I'd be dead and you'd be a murderer. I think that still counts as bad."

"Good point."

"But if I pushed you out," she said, "I'd lose deadweight." She began to shove him.

"I'LL HIT YOU!" he shrieked.

"YOU CAN'T HIT A GIRL!"

"YOU HIT ME FIRST!"

"DID NOT!"

"DID SO!"

"_WHEN?_"

"WHEN YOU-- _OW!_"

"_NOW_ I HIT YOU FIRST. SERVES YOU RIGHT, YOU --"

"Children!" said a voice from the black carriage. The door opened slowly, and a black-cloaked figure stuck its head out.

"DON'T EAT ME, EAT _HER,_ SHE'S THE ONE YOU WANT!" shouted Augustus.

"HE WANTS TO PUSH ME OFF THE SLEIGH! MURDER'S WORSE THAN LARCENY!" Ed shouted.

"Would both of you _please_ be quiet and tell me where the werewolves are?" demanded the figure. It pulled its hood down to reveal a man of about her father's age, with a harried expression and a distinct lack of Nacklesry.

"...werewolves?" said Augustus slowly. "What werewolves?"

The man blinked. He looked at the perytons, and his eyes widened. "Good lord. Are those perytons?"

"They're Father Christmas' perytons," said Ed smugly. "We were just returning them. But, er, we can't."

"It'd be ever so kind of you to help us land them," said Augustus, for once being cooperative.

The man waited until the carriage closer to the sleigh, then leapt across the gap, where he managed to calm the perytons down. As they were landing, he introduced himself as Mr. Scamander from the Ministry, and Ed asked if he was here for the Christmas party.

"Father says you're all scheming do-nothing busybodies, so I can't imagine you were invited, but since you helped with the perytons I bet he'd let you stay," said Ed earnestly.

"Unfortunately, I have another situation to deal with at the moment -- good lord! What are all these men doing? Who's in charge here?" he demanded of one of the Americans.

"I am," said Mother, stepping forward. Then she caught sight of Ed. "ED! There you are!" She swept Ed up in her arms. "Where have you been?"

"We were looking at Father Christmas' perytons, Mother," said Ed. "Augustus doesn't believe in Father Christmas."

"I see," said Mother, looking at Augustus as though he had just proposed the idea that the sun was made of marmalade. Ed stuck her tongue out at him, but he swallowed whatever insults he was about to make. She put Ed down. "Go inside, both of you, it isn't safe out here."

"I should think not," said Ed. "Perytons are _very_ carnivorous."

As she skipped into the house, Augustus sulking behind her, she caught a few more words of the conversation. "Have you got a transfigurator's license for those, er..."

"Abraxans," said Mother. "My husband does."

"Well, I should like to see it once the werewolves are taken care of. Call off your men; we don't want to _shoot_ them if we can help it."

And soon the house was warm and full of people again -- the Rookwoods all seemed horrified and disgusted, the Chicagoans disappointed, the goblins politely bemused, and the Espis Arms and Armaments employees seemed to have fallen asleep, and had never left the house at all. Mr. Scamander even led Father Christmas into the house after a few hours, though he seemed quite twitchy, and keen to get away, and Ed was a bit disappointed.

And the next morning, Father reappeared, looking quite exhausted and covered in grease. He led a bruised and snarling Uncle Thelonious out of the door and into the arms of several burly Aurors, and then led Ed and her mother into the basement of the house, where he had had a small private bowling alley built, as a Christmas present. He apologized for the mess, but, he added, he'd had to make a werewolf trap out of the pin machine on short notice.

It was perfect in every way but one: it tended to smell of wet dog on full moons.

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, a little bit of **background**. My beta thinkatory and I roleplayed as Ed and Rookwood in leviosarpg on LJ. Rookwood is, of course, the Death Eater Unspeakable; Ed isn't a Death Eater, but she was another highly-placed Unspeakable who placed logic perhaps too high on her list of priorities and went, well, mad. Their journals are avatar_author and luck_and_fate on LJ, although Ed's is no longer posted in, since I don't RP anymore.
> 
> The title, "**Latent Maniacal Tendencies,**" is a quote from the movie "Miracle on 34th Street," which I kind of love. It really shows in this.
> 
> **Espis Mansion** is inspired by the one in _The Great Gatsby_.
> 
> **Phileas Fogg** is from _Around the World in Eighty Days,_ one of my favorite novels. Ed has apparently read it too.
> 
> She probably hasn't read anything by David Sedaris, who inspired me to look for **horrific Santa-esque analogues**. I think _Holidays On Ice_ may have dealt with this, but unfortunately I don't actually have the book, I've just heard the stories read aloud at Christmas parties.
> 
> A **sestina** is a kind of poem. There is no Rookwood sister named Sestina. Oh well.
> 
> The phrase "**pneumatic nutcracker**" is funny. This is a silly citation, but I never pass up a chance to plug Girl Genius. Gilgamesh Wulfenbach had one once, but it probably wasn't seasonal like Clovis Espis'.
> 
> **Perytons** are a little-known mythical creature that generally act the way Ed describes them. Their shadows are supposed to look like men, and they were reputed to be the ghosts of sailors who died at sea. They seem to be a Mediterranean phenomenon, so why Santa Claus would employ them rather than less terrifying winged horses is not known. (Perytons also appear in the _Young Wizards_ series, by Diane Duane. But they're wolf-like in that.)
> 
> **Nackles**! Oh, where do I begin. I was linked to a short story, "Nackles," by Curt Clark, at some point this Christmas season and I happen to like Christmas ghost stories, so Nackles ended up becoming the focus of the story. I adapted the original from a modern middle-class American Muggle version to a thirties upper-crust British pureblood version, but I didn't really have to change much. The original at www.nackles.com is down, but the archived version is here:  
> http://web.archive.org/web/20080506130016/http://www.nackles.com/nackles.php
> 
> I have no idea if "**traitorous strumpety lady-Hun**" is the kind of thing anyone would say, ever, because it sounds ridiculous. I do apologize for the ethnic slur. I don't like them even if they're old, but most of the characters in this story are nasty people, except maybe Newt Scamander.
> 
> A note on **larceny**! At some point it was called larceny in the UK, but it is now "theft." I'm afraid I don't know what exactly stealing Father Christmas' flying sleigh would fall under, but I think it'd be considered larceny in 1937. Argh. Not a lawyer.
> 
> I don't think the **bowling alley** thing comes from the movie "A Christmas Story," but it's safest to cite things. Anyway, it's a good movie. Go watch it.


End file.
